The food rots when it is already in my belly
baby mush, cinders from its graceless fire trail –
I dig my tonsils with two fingers but
you will not return to our winter, the exterior.
So, hearts slip backward: a new abode
these intestinal earthquakes applauded in Hell
have stolen fruit I certainly could have froze.
In the woodshed, I discover a scalpel
and attempt to dislodge you from my hipbone
but now my stomach’s been kissed by Satan
I am birthing premature infants from a wound.
Another hour I shall give a funeral
for the apple core, swallow each seed so you
will grow once again safe and sound in my belly.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
The food rots when it is already in my belly
baby mush, cinders from its graceless fire trail –
I dig my tonsils with two fingers but
you will not return to our winter, the exterior.
So, hearts slip backward: a new abode
these intestinal earthquakes applauded in Hell
have stolen fruit I certainly could have froze.
In the woodshed, I discover a scalpel
and attempt to dislodge you from my hipbone
but now my stomach’s been kissed by Satan
I am birthing premature infants from a wound.
Another hour I shall give a funeral
for the apple core, swallow each seed so you
will grow once again safe and sound in my belly.
